


Purple Hawk Down

by Arision



Series: S.H.E.I.L.D. Files: Menagerie [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: And more pranks, Brief mention of homophobia, Cleaning up the mess, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief, Long slow healing, Loss of love, M/M, Pranks, Serious swearing, Suicidal Thoughts, The Avengers being badass dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arision/pseuds/Arision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki left a broken, destroyed shell of a man behind when Clint Barton was released from his magic.  Now Clint must climb his way back into some vague idea of normalcy, when his world is now missing a vital, Phil Coulson-shaped piece.</p><p>Thankfully, he doesn't have to make the climb alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purple Hawk Down

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this was absolutely exhausting, and is the reason I haven't updated in so long. this thing's a bloody monster! Also, appologies for any story of factual inaccuracies. I don't have a beta, so any and all fault is mine! 
> 
> Also, already wrooking on the next installment.

"Healing  is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of  opportunity."

  
Hippocrates

* * *

  


The couch was really uncomfortable. 

This was the only thought in Clint’s brain as he sat in the office of his third shrink in as many weeks.  This one was a man, mid to late forties, with the beginnings of a paunchy middle and male pattern baldness at the top of his head.  He was kind, as they all were at the start, but after forty-five minuets of trying and failing to get Clint to so much as respond to his questions, he was apparently at the end of his rope.  Of course, Clint’s smart-ass answers were not helping his case in any way except downward.

The man was tapping his pen against the legal pad he had perched on one knee, his slightly watery hazel eyes shuttling back and forth between Clint and the wall, where the clock hung.  Clint was busy thinking Shield was painfully cheap if they couldn’t even buy decently comfy couches for their psych department.  They had the mental well being of patients other than Clint to consider, and if Clint had wanted to fix himself, this would put him off to a bad start. 

“Now, Agent Barton…”, the shrink began, and Clint was mildly impressed despite himself.  He’d been nothing but stoned walled by the man everyone in the department hated to have to deal with after a mission, regulations or not, and here he was, trying _again_.  Clint had to silently compliment the man’s tenacity.

“This couch is really uncomfortable.” he cut in.  The man blinked those big eyes at him, so entirely startled by Clint’s sudden statement that he appeared to be very wrong footed indeed.

“I, I’m sorry, what?” he tried.

“This couch.  It’s uncomfortable.  You want me to do emotional healing and shit, but how am I supposed to manage it with a lump the size of an egg pressing into my kidneys?  You guys should really stop being so cheap.”

That did it.  The man’s face reddened, and he reached his breaking point.  He pointed a shaking finger at the door.

“You may go, Agent Barton.  We’re done here.”

Clint was on his feet before the words had even finished leaving the man’s mouth, and he’d crossed to the door in the span of three breaths.  Yet, as the door closed behind him, he heard the man dial the phone that had been sitting on his desk.

“I’m done with that asshole.”, he snarled to whatever poor soul was on the other end of the line, “Find someone else to deal with him.”

Clint gave a mirthless smirk as he continued down the hall.

***

Night was always the hardest on his long road to recovery.  The end of the day and the absence of light sent him back to Loki, and back to that endless haunting phrase:

“ _You have heart_.”

By that point, he would usually wake, covered in terror sweat and curled into the fetal position, jaws locked tight against a horrified scream and hands clapped tight over his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound of that same all-consuming sentence.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Needless to say, he did not like to sleep much.  Those nightmares made it worse, and they were not the only ones to plague him.  Simply the most frequent.

Sometimes it was blood and screams and the scent of terror thick in the back of his throat, memories from Loki putting his Shield interrogation training to far too frequent use.  Yes, Shield had a lot of enemies, but many of those enemies weren’t stupid, and had to be “persuaded” to see things from the Asgardian’s point of view.  He couldn’t use the magic stick on all of them. 

These were probably the ones that bothered him least of the dreams, because these were not new.  He’d been a part of torture, both giving and receiving, in his time at Shield too.  Pretending he was a saint before this whole mess would be hypocritical, and if there was one thing Clint was good at, it was remembering what a waste of life he was.

Sometimes it was the break-in at Stuttgart again, with slow frames and replay.  Always the same: Him raising his bow, loosing the string, hearing a faint whistle and a following meaty thwack, watching another shadow fall.  His team had assumed it was mind control that Loki had had him under, and in part that was true.  There had been a small, terrifyingly tiny part of him screaming and clawing within himself, a prisoner within his own body, unable to stop what would happen next.  But the other half, the bigger part of him, had been very much in control.  That was the scepter’s real power.  Loki’s plot had seemed so clear, so straight forward and believable.  It had made him a zealot to the seat of his soul, believing in the mission as his one purpose in life, with everything and everyone else as either necessary targets or unfortunate bystanders.  He was not as innocent as he let them believe.  How could he be?  He had not been able to stop, he _would not_ stop.  There was no other way to define him, cognitive recalibration or not.

The worst dream, though, was always the most frequent, and the one he felt was the greatest indicator of his guilt.

The attack on the hellicarrier.  It had been his knowledge of its mechanics, its blueprints, its strengths and weaknesses that Loki had used when formulating his plan.  It had been he, himself that had planned and led the raid that left nearly one hundred Shield employees and nearly twenty civilian contractors dead, with many more wounded.  Here in these nightmares were faces he knew, and the stories that went with them.

Hank Alvarez, who was a civilian contractor for maintenance.  He had a big family that loved him to the point of insanity, and always asked questions he couldn’t answer about what he did for a living.  He’d just recently gotten married and his young wife, who was the joy of his life, was currently expecting.  Clint remembered that conversation well.  He’d been in the mess and Hank had burst in waving the sonogram.  Clint had been the closest table to the door, and so had been cornered into every detail by the glowing father, not that he’d really minded.  Hank was also a poker buddy, from the Thursday night hellicarrier interdepartmental games.  He and Clint shared a taste for Heineken beer.

Clint had put a broad head in his right eye socket.

Then there was Sara Michelson, a fighter pilot assigned from the Air Force.  She’d never been very open that he could remember, or even said very much, but he knew she was close friends with Agent Hill, and more than once he’d seen her sitting with Natasha, cups of tea or coffee in their hands.  She had also taught one of the weekly cooking classes in the carrier kitchen, giving those who attended her recipe for the best grilled cheese Clint had ever tasted in his life.  Three kinds of cheese, sourdough bread, and a home-made garlic and rosemary butter that was absolutely worth every scrap of your soul. 

One of Loki’s hired guns had shot her in the back as she’s shielded one of the computer techs in the control room.

The names went on, a list Clint took to memorizing, so that he would never forget the people whose lives he had taken, either directly or indirectly.  They were his fault, and no shrink on a crap government salary was ever going to make him see differently.  If he had so much heart, how had he failed so indescribably?  He had failed Shield, the Avengers, Phil.  He’d failed Phil.

That fact hurt the worst; that failure cut the deepest.  He spent half of his time right after the whole mess wrapped in self-loathing and guilt and grief.   He’d eyed his standard issue more than once with the idea of putting himself out of everyone’s misery.  He was too much of a coward to pull the trigger.  Yet. 

The other half, he spent kicking himself over lost time and opportunity.  He’d kept his mouth shut for too long, and now the chance to tell his handler how he felt was gone forever.  His feelings were his best kept secret, even from Natasha.  But Loki had picked, and played, and poked inside the deepest corners of Clint’s brain, and he’d found that too.

Phil, all bland suits and bureaucratic, government-trained expressions, hiding beneath those layers an action hero and a man who didn’t take levels in badass, he handed out  step stools and then waited for everyone else to catch up.  Phil, with his Captain America obsession that bordered on fanatical, and his loathing for all things relating to cooking.  The man who would rather go through eight hours of torture with true professionals then even think about facing his mother with his perpetual single status every major holiday.  The guy who liked Super nanny, powdered doughnuts only from road-side gas stations, and who had a secret fantasy of tasing Anthony Stark so hard the man would piss blood. 

Phil, who always had a contingency plan, even when his first contingency plan went to hell, then the second, and the third.  The calm, authoritative voice in his ear, always:  “Take the shot, Barton.”, and nothing more. Clint had never felt guilty taking those shots because he knew Coulson would not ask him to wash his hands in that blood without a damn good reason.  Yes, some of it was political bullshit, but other times, it was for the good, for justice, for stuff that made Clint feel like sometimes he wasn’t such a pathetic piece of crap as he thought.  Coulson, who was thorough, in command, and willing to be proved wrong in the right circumstances.

And his laugh.  Phillip Coulson only ever _really_ laughed around the people he would trust with the lives of his twin infant nephews.  Clint had been rewarded with it three times in the last month alone, and every single time had been a gift he had no idea how to thank Phil for.  It started with the crinkling of those blue, blue eyes, and a quirking at one corner of his mouth, followed by a wrinkling of his nose.  Then his smile would stretch and stretch until it was almost too big for his face.  The sound itself would rumble in his belly, rise through his chest, up his throat, and then escape outward in a deep display of mirth, with head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut.

Clint had spent a lot of time with Phil Coulson, obviously.  When they had both been stationed at the doomed Tesseract research facility, they had often found themselves in each other’s company.  This was perfectly normal.  Coulson had been Clint’s Shield recruiter, was his handler, and since there was a prior connection, they found themselves spending much of their off-duty time together.  Sometimes it was just a quick lunch break at the cantina, a joke around the water cooler, or a brushing of shoulders as they passed in the halls.  Other times it was all day, or night, movie-athons in one of their rooms.  These had been Clint’s favorite.  Neither of the assigned rooms had been the Ritz, but they would pile themselves onto one hard cot or another, heap it with blankets and break out the snacks.  Popcorn with salt and no butter for Phil, kettle corn for Clint and his sweet tooth.

The night before Loki, and magic, and the ruin of all they knew, they had been in Clint’s room, watching an abnormally bad B-list horror film whose name Clint could not even remember.  Either it had been _really_ bad, or the day had been really exhausting, because half way through, Phil had fallen asleep, leaning back against the wall.  As he’d fallen further and further into REM cycles, he’d leaned, and leaned, and leaned a little more. Until he’d ended up sprawled across Clint’s bed, with his head pillowed on Clint’s thigh. 

Said archer had refused to move any more muscles than necessary for maintaining continued life for over two hours, long after the credits had finished rolling.  Clint had simply watched Phil’s eyes flutter behind their lids, eyelashes flicking against his cheeks, and his mouth hanging slightly open in relaxation.  Clint had been considering whether he should kiss that mouth while it was unguarded.  Just once, to know what it felt like, how Phil tasted.  He had even been leaning forward the tiniest bit when those incredible blue eyes had flickered open, dazed and heavy with sleep. 

Clint’s heart had done a back-flip, rolled right out of his chest, and landed with a soundless plop right at Phil’s metaphorical feet. 

In the mean time, Phil himself had given a sleepy little snuffle, blinking himself back into full consciousness.  Clint retracted himself as far as he possibly could without actually having to move his thigh out from under Phil’s head.

“Sorry, Barton.  Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Even his voice had been rough, that sleepy-sexy rasp that Clint had a secret kink for.  His only defense was snark.

“That’s what happens when I drug your popcorn,”

He winced internally as soon as this left his mouth, as it had sounded a great deal less creepy and psychotic within the walls of his own brain.  But Phil had only given a huff of quiet laughter, stretching out his sleep-stiffened muscles.

“I wouldn’t put it past you, Barton.  You _would_ make crappy popcorn to go along with a crap movie.”

“Well, fuck you too, sir.”

But he’d been grinning, with no real heat or sting behind his words.  His reward was another low chuckle and a:  “You should be so lucky, Barton.”  And Clint had started laughing, too. 

They had shared that laugh for a few moments, and then looked at each other.  The tension in the room had gone from non-existent to overwhelming in so short a time, it left Clint feeling dizzy in the aftermath.  He’d licked his lips, and Phil had tracked the movements with his eyes, staring a little longer than was strictly platonic, or so Clint told himself.  He’d later wonder if he had been fooling  himself.  But he’d leaned forward the tiniest bit, and when it seemed like he was going to get his wish after all, Phil had rolled away from him and to his feet, still stretching his arms and spine.

“I should probably hit the hay.  Director Fury and Agent Hill be here tomorrow to review those recent energy flares from the cube.”

For one crazy, insane moment, Clint had opened his mouth to ask him to stay.  To let him be lucky just that one time.  But a dark part of him, that area that always sounded like his father, and Barney, and Trickshot and the Swordsman, spoke up and reminded him of all the things he didn’t deserve; What, and _who_ he didn’t deserve.  He’d shut his mouth with a click, worked his jaw a little. 

“Yeah, sure.  Good night, sir.  Don’t let the Hill-bugs bite.”, he said when the silence seemed to stretch too long.  Phil had looked at him over one shoulder, stared hard like he was trying to see into Clint’s brain, and Clint had simply given his blandest smile, like he hadn’t meant anything more than what he’d said.  He wasn’t sure if he’d really fooled Phil, but Phil let it slide with a small smile.

“It’s the Fury-bugs I’m worried about.”, he’d quipped as he sauntered out the door, leaving Clint alone with a flickering television, two empty bowls, and a hollow, Phil-shaped area of loneliness just under his breast bone.  It had taken him a long time to find sleep that night, and the next had brought Loki and his magic, pulling Clint under into a world where monsters from nightmares were real. 

By the time he had struggled to the surface, that laugh he’d loved so dearly had been silenced forever.

***

A week after the invasion, Clint had stopped eating or sleeping more than absolutely necessary, preferring to bury himself in helping search and rescue efforts, or helping to clean up the city he had assisted in destroying in more ways than one.  New York City depended on tourism for most of it’s economy, and while the streets were down, the people who lived there would suffer.  It wasn’t like Loki had allowed him more than the most basic needs of life anyway during Clint’s little sojourn in hell.  He found himself echoing the treatment after his ‘release’, because he knew he didn’t deserve anything better, and if anything, deserved much worse.

Needless to say, Natasha did not take too well to this at all, and took to showing up what at ever place he happened to be that day at random times with things like burgers, or water, or high-sugar crap meant to help him gain back the weight he had lost while a mind-monkey.  He learned to stop turning them away outright after she had attempted (rather successfully, he hated to admit) shoving some gummy worms down his throat.  He just took what she handed him after that. He wasn’t _that_ bird-like, thanks.

*

His simply tried to avoid her, if he could.  He would tell her he was going to be one place, and then report to another.  On rest days, which he was forced to take by other volunteers no matter how much he insisted he was fine, he would take to haunting the roof, or the basements, or even on one memorable occasion, the labs, of Stark tower.  (The resulting shocks and explosions quickly deterred him from using it as a hiding place again.)

Apparently not eating dulled his brain cells even further than the trauma of having himself unmade, because for a while he actually thought he might win this particular argument.  Instead, she recruited Dr. Banner and Captain Rogers to aide her.  He didn’t dare point out that that was cheating, as he really didn’t want to encourage her to keep him alive, even for his snark.

Captain Rogers outweighed him by a good sixty pounds _before_ Clint had joined the Loki-diet, and afterward, unless he wanted to do serious damage to a national icon and weather the resulting wrath of Phil’s ghost, there was no contest in a fair fight.  The good captain could, and did, muscle him into the nearest field-cafeteria two or three times a day.  He was easier to avoid than ‘Tasha, but once he saw Clint, he was relentless in his pursuit.

Dr. Banner was in many ways worse.  While he was easiest to evade, and did not have the necessary physical prowess required to bodily get Clint where he wanted him to go without throwing a massive green hissy-fit, he was also the more persuasive of ‘Tasha’s recruits, and often had more success with Clint.  He was also worst, with his quiet, unassuming presence sitting next to Clint as he wolfed down what ever was put in front of him as fast as possible so as to return to the back breaking, mind numbing labor.  His dark eyes were far more knowing than anyone else’s, like he understood that lackof control, or the lack of wanting to control, that had caused Clint to commit so many horrors.  Banner’s behavior offered things that Clint would not allow himself: Forgiveness, understanding, acceptance.  He knew he didn’t deserve it.

***

He joined the rest  of the team in giving Thor and Loki their Midgardian ‘Bon Voyage’, although Shield had refused to left Clint plant something sharp and painful in one of Loki’s eye sockets before he left.  He settled for watching the shifty little bastard as Thor, Stark, and Banner had arranged the Tesseract for departure.  It was during this that Natasha had leaned over to whisper in his ear, her Russian soothing to his mind.

“B’yus’ ob zaklad, khoroshiye den’gi on placket, kak trakheal shlyuka, kogda on varnetsya v Asgard.*”

Clint is very sure that the smile that crossed his face at that mental image is beyond disturbing, as even Loki gifted him with a wary look, and two of the Shield agents on the other side of the circle actually backed up a few steps.  He can’t bring himself to care, and he hoped Natasha’s prediction would come true, even if he’s not there to see it, because if Clint deserves nothing but hatred and scorn,  then Loki deserves far, far worse. 

*

Afterward, they scatter in all directions.  Stark and Banner disappear in one of Stark’s spiffy looking sports cars that Clint sort-of secretly wanted to jack and take for a wild ride down the highway just to see how fast she’d go.  Rogers leaves on the old motorcycle that had brought Banner back to the battlefield, no helmet, and completely unconcerned about it.  He and Natasha had climbed back into the Shield -issued car, and been driven back to base.  Clint had rather hoped this would mean the mothering would drop off a little.  Maybe he could even get to a gun for the two minuets it would take to end everything.

He really should have known better.

***

A month after Thor’s departure, Natasha finally bullies him into moving into the phallic monstrosity Stark calls a tower.  He wasn’t sure what to make of a guy who flies around in a tin can, but he appreciated his taste in hard rock.  And his sass.

The moment he walked into the front room, he knew Stark had hacked his file.  He wanted to be angry, but he reminded himself that only people of worth got to feel offended.  (He was on his eighth shrink, and each was making progressively less progress than the first, simply dividing by zero to get zero).   Nothing else would explain one of Van Gogh’s pasture scenes, as a very well-rendered mural taking up an entire wall.  He judged it to be about half way through his farm phase.  Or the entire room devoted to crafting and building model airplanes, stocked with a few kits Clint had never even seen before.

This room hurt, a little, as Phil had been the one to get him started on his first.  It had been something to do with his hands, after a particularly tough assignment had left him wired and unable to sleep.

The circus area was nice, and had he given his worth more of a damn, he might have even planned revenge for the big top on one wall. As it was, Natasha stood next to him as he simply stared blankly at the obnoxiously bright colors.  Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze.

“How about you get some sleep, Clint.  You need rest.”  It was not a question.

“Don’t deserve it.” he said without really thinking, and the supportive squeeze had momentarily morphed into a death-grip.  He knew she was scowling without turning to look at her.

“Shut up.  Bed. Now.” 

It spoke to how low he truly was that he did not even rise an eyebrow in innuendo, much less make an inappropriate comment, and simply let her steer him into the darkened bedroom.  Neither was prepared for what awaited them, and after she had flicked on the light, they had stood side-by-side, staring for an indeterminate amount of time. Finally ‘Tasha managed a sort of squeak.

“It that-?”

“Sir thought it would make Agent Barton feel more at home.  His words were ‘Should really make Katniss feel more at ease.’” Stark’s AI butler informed them cheerfully, clearly mistaking their silence for awe or appreciation.  He even substituted Stark’s voice for his own comment.  Clint found the big-brother presence rather creepy, and their continued silence on the matter helped to persuade Jarvis to view it differently.

“Shall I inform Sir that you would prefer something different, Agent Barton?” it asked, with no change in tone or inflection, yet still managing to convey hesitancy.  Natasha started to open her mouth, probably to say yes, when Clint cut her off.  He felt extremely weird addressing a computer, geez, but he had a feeling he would get used to it.

“No.  No, thanks, uh…Jarvis?”

“You are most welcome, Agent Barton.  Please let me know if you should require anything else.”

“Yeah, yeah I’ll do that.”, Clint answered weakly.  There was silence for a little while after that before Natasha looked at him.

“Clint?”

“Hey, ‘Tasha, do you have a camera and a computer with a printer I could borrow?”

Her answering smile reminded him exactly why he loved her so much.

***

When Stark is having trouble on the West coast with some crazy fuck called the Mandarin, Clint and Natasha were on their first mission out since the cheesily-dubbed ‘Battle of New York’ (There’d already been one of those, thank you very much.).

It was two separate hit and runs somewhere un-disclosable in Saudi Arabia.  Clint didn’t mind it so much, but Natasha held great feelings of loathing, no only because it was god-forsaken hot, but because in order to be inconspicuous, she had to wear a full burka.  This made her hotter, in the bad way, and therefore more prone to violence.  Clint almost felt sorry for her target.

Almost.

 _His_ target was an oil merchant with ‘suspected ties’ to some terrorist group or other.  Considering he worked for a group that fell under that moniker sometimes, Clint couldn’t always see how this was a bad thing.  It was also probably a massive load of camel shit to feed the media, and the only real reason he was taking the shot was to frighten the man’s successor into doing what the higher ups wanted.  This was a con of having a handler _significantly_ lower down on the totem pole than the last one.

Agent Swickers was also a grade A douche bag on a swivel-stick, and had absolutely no concern for ethics, which didn’t help him much in either Clint’s or Natasha’s eyes.  They did not even need to kill the man, in Clint’s (expert) opinion, and scaring him into wetting himself would leave just as lasting an impression.  Swickers had disagreed since the briefing stateside, so Clint was now baking under a light camouflage screen on  a rooftop of some half-piss village in the middle of the desert, watching an old man through his sniper scope.

Swickers (he refused to call that bastard his handler, damnit) was buzzing in his ear, but Clint had long since stopped listening.  At the mission briefing, the agent had made a comment about his ‘defection, covered by the higher-ups he’s fucked’, and he hadn’t shut up since.  Clint felt this was an abuse of file privileges, and whether he preferred males or females behind closed doors was no business of the little boot-licker.  He might be a pathetic waste of life, but that didn’t mean that some dough-faced cum slut with inadequacy issues got to point it out. 

He’d mentioned as much to ‘Tasha, who had only smiled and remarked,

“Phil really missed his life’s calling as a therapist when he joined Shield.”

And it hadn’t hurt as bad as he’d thought it would to hear that name mentioned.  He-

“I said, _do you copy, Agent Barton_?!”, a whiney voice shrieked over the comm. unit so loudly, Clint wondered if his target could hear Swickers as well.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”, he responded blandly, and then gave a massive grin when the other agent went into a round of pathetic and unoriginal swears.  He took another look into his scope, swallowing in a vain attempt to clear the bad taste from the back of his mouth.  Jesus, the guy had a kid with him.  Probably his grandson, and the dark haired boy couldn’t have been more than eight.  He swallowed again, and something deep, deep down in a microscopic part of Clint’s ravaged remains of a soul, so tiny that even Loki had missed it, looked.  Something looked, and it said:

“This is wrong.”

He hadn’t realized he had spoken out loud until the curses stopped suddenly on the other end of the comm. line, leaving a remote silence.  It was broken by static, and then the cold bite of Swickers’ voice.

“I beg your pardon, Agent Barton?”

The words were too carefully and clearly pronounced for Clint to misunderstand.  He knew he was standing at the edge of a very tall cliff at that moment, and to say another word would mean his job, his place in the Avengers, and what little he had left to live for if Swickers had his way. 

And the worst part was he honestly considered shutting up, for the briefest of moments there.  Anything to cling to what he knew.  He wasn’t strong like ‘Tasha, or brave like Captain Rogers.  He wasn’t a hero like Phil.

  He was broken; he had no where else to go.  He could almost hear his father, in his alcohol sodden grave for nearly a decade, slurring back at him from his childhood.

_Ain’t no one cares what a little maggot like you thinks!  You’re too dumb to get anything right anyway!_

And Clint’s mouth shut with a little click.

“No, sir.” he grit out.  He felt sick to his stomach, and he looked into his scope a third time, lining up his target in the crosshairs, with his finger hovering over the trigger.  But that tiny little speck of decency in him would not give up and die like he wanted it to.  It kept poking, and prodding and picking at his buried conscience again and again.  The thoughts chased themselves around in his head.: ‘This is wrong.  _This is wrong!_ I don’t fight for petty bullshit like this.  _Phil_ didn’t fight for shit like this.  What would he think if I took this shot, here and now _?_ ’

“That’s what I thought you gay little fag.  Now take the fucking shot.”

That was just fucking it.

Swickers didn’t know it, but he’d helped to seal Clint’s decision.  Clint methodically dismantled the gun as quickly as he could, setting the pieces in a carry-case, and then set the case aside.  He then picked up his bow and drew a general shot arrow from his quiver.

“Agent Barton, I told you to take the shot!”

Before he could talk himself out of it, Clint rose from his hiding place, nocked the arrow, aimed and released.  The projectile nailed the oil merchant’s turban to the wall behind him, leaving his head untouched but for the mess made by the it’s passing force.  Chaos erupted in the marketplace below, and Clint grabbed his bow, quiver, and the carry-case with his rifle, leaving the shelter behind.  No one could trace the materials, and the no other agency or freelancer who used arrows except for him could make that shot.  The merchant would get the message loud and clear.  Clint began to get the hell out of Dodge.

Swickers was screaming in his ear about how Clint had dug his own grave, and when he was through, Clint would never hold a decent position again.  He’d have Clint working with the street whores!

Clint yanked the comm. unit out of his ear and ground in to useless little fragments beneath the heel of his boot, but not before he took one last parting shot.

“Blow me, you little twat.”

*

Fury was waiting in the hanger as the quin-jet taxied inside, standing at parade rest with Swickers like a little rat at his elbow.  He regarded Clint with his good eye, no apparent emotion on his face, as Clint walked toward him from the plane. 

Clint met him look for look, his bow in his hand and Natasha at his side.  He was tired of being everybody’s monkey with a gun, and if that was all he was to Shield, then fuck them all.  He was done being the shit-man.

This tense, uneasy staring contest went on until even Clint’s fantastic eyes started to water, and he was seriously considering blinking before his eyeballs turned to dust.  But then, Fury gave the tiniest hint of a smirk and nodded once.

“Welcome back, agents.  A job well done.”

*

Swickers was transferred to paper-pushing in a front company someplace cold and isolated two weeks later.  The reasons given were ambiguous, but Clint understood.  He was valuable to Shield.  Valuable enough to demote a trained handler with more years of experience than he had himself.  Knowing that felt…well, good.

Rumors also circulated that Medical had been required to patch Swickers up hurriedly before he left.  Whispers of a mysterious broken wrist, several cracked ribs, a concussion, and two black eyes would make Natasha smile like a cat with canary feathers in it’s whiskers for a long time afterward.

***

The road to recovery was murkier than he’d expected, and it often took him long weeks to realize certain things.

The first came after he had snuck his way into Stark’s lab with  bag full of spray paint cans.  He had been standing back to admire his (rather brilliant, if he did say so himself) handiwork, tossing a half-empty can up and down in one hand.  He’d rather felt that circus colors would suit Stark well.  And he realized, with a jolt, as he caught the can and then held it still, that he was doing something he hadn’t done in almost four months.

He was smiling.

***

The next came nearly two months later, almost a full six months after the whole Loki debacle, when Thor had been having one of his very first game nights, upon the eve of his first return to Earth.  The Norse god had a brooding look whenever he met Clint’s eyes, but was otherwise jovial.  He then cornered Clint as the latter had gone to get himself another can of pop from the fridge. 

“Eyes of the hawk…”, the Asgardian began hesitantly, and Clint nearly bit his own tongue in frustration.

“Save it.”, he snapped, before Thor could get any further, “It wasn’t your fault.” These were words ten different shrinks had told Clint so far, and while he still didn’t believe them about himself, he could certainly apply them to other people. Blond brows wrinkled.

“But…”

“It. Was. Not. You. Fault.”, Clint repeated slowly, as if he felt Thor was not nearly as bright as Clint knew he was.  He then popped open the can and chugged half of it in one go in an attempt to wash away the taste of acid in the back of his throat.  He was the last person to be filling the role of comforter in this sort of conversation.  When Thor opened his mouth yet again, Clint entertained the idea of chucking the can at him.

“Stop.  Just stop.”, he snapped, “Stop playing the martyr, stop acting like you had any control over the situation.  There was nothing more you could have done than what you did.  He’s your brother, not your puppet.”

The god’s blue eyes were heavy with a knowing that made Clint’s intestines turn to water.  He _knew_.  Clint didn’t know how, but he did.  He knew the internal struggle, the real condition Clint’s mind had been in.  And there was kindness, which made it all the worse.  He didn’t know how things went back on Asgard, but he knew that on Earth, you didn’t go around forgiving people with monstrous souls.

“You say I am blameless…” the Asgardian said quietly, “You say I could have done nothing more than what I did.  I am afraid we shall never come to an accord on that particular subject, but how are you any different?  The blame does not lie upon your shoulders, any more than it lies upon any of the others my brother took.  You lay the fault at your own door, when you are deserving of none of it.”

“No, I’m different.  My job was military, no scientific.  I told him the information, I lead the attacks, I fired the arrows. _My_ fault.”

“Is it?”

“Yes…?”

But now Clint wasn’t so sure.  He wanted to be, he knew he should be.  But.  What Thor was saying made more sense than he wanted it to.  Thor was a _god_ , for crying out loud.  If he had trouble with Loki, it makes sense that Clint would too.  Right?  He wasn’t sure.  He knew his own mind, and he never liked what he found there.  But Thor was speaking again, breaking him from his internal debate.

I think not, Agent Barton. You-No, you have said your piece, now let me say mine.”

Clint had attempted to interrupt him,

“I know my brother, and his power, Eyes of the Hawk, and I know the power of a Midgardian.  It is formidable, truly, but no contest for my brother, even stripped of his magic as he is now.  And what ever actions you may contribute to your own decisions cannot be blamed upon you when your own mind is twisted against you.  I speak as truly as I can when I tell you that you own no fault in this.”

He was felling massively frustrated by this point.  People hadn’t always been this dumb, had they?  Thor certainly wasn’t, so he had no idea why the god was playing at it.

“No, I-”

“Was taken captive by one who controlled a magic far beyond the comprehension, much less the capabilities, of your own people.” Thor informed him seriously.

“Well, yes, but-”

“You were forced into a mind control so total you believed you were making the decisions to commit acts of war.”

This was Natasha, slinking quietly from the shadows to place a gentle hand on one of his arms. 

“No, no, I-”

“You were also forced to work night and day with little food or rest, and no respite from your surroundings.”

Banner stepped out from behind Thor, and it spoke to how distracted Clint was that he hadn’t even heard the guy come in.  Between the three of them, he was starting to feel a little crowded, and he eyed the door into the living room side-long.  Natasha’s nails dug in sharply, letting him know that escape would come with a messy price.  He attempted to talk he was out of it.

“You aren’t listening to me!”

“But we are, Merida.  Let’s recap.” Stark said, sauntering from behind Thor as well, and by now Clint would be willing to bet Captain Rogers was somewhere around there too.  Thor was big enough to hide a Chitauri.  Stark moved over to boost himself onto one of the kitchen counters near Banner, offering him something from an open aluminum bag.  Clint thought he smelled blueberries.

“You were taken captive by an evil, megalomaniacal genius with vast magical powers and a staggering god complex.  No offense, Thor.”

“No offense is taken, Man of Iron.”

  “You were put and held under mind control so total by said powers, you were quite literally both tricked into thinking you were making your own decisions, and imprisoned in your own body.  You were then forced to exist in extremely stressful conditions, and to commit acts of horror and atrocity upon innocent bystanders.  An experience that would drive probably ninety percent of the world’s population into a nut house, I might add, and while the jury is still out on your mental standing, you haven’t taken a swan dive off the roof yet.  Did we miss anything?”

Stark was interesting to watch when he was performing a monologue.  He waved his arms and leaned back and forth until Clint though he’d topple off the counters.  His facial expressions ranged from surprised to skeptical to half way amused, and Clint thought the state his mental health might not be the only one the jury was out on.  He was also shaking by this point, although whether in fear or further frustration, he wasn’t sure.  Stark popped in more blueberries once he’d stopped to breathe.

Silence fell for a moment.

“You missed the part where I fired the arrows that killed innocent people!” Clint cried when he could trust his voice not to come out as an embarrassing squeak.

Captain Rogers straightened from where he had been leaning against the doorjamb and came to place a hand on Clint’s shoulder.  Clint had to tilt his head up almost ninety degrees to look at something other than a chest that was broader than he was at his widest point.  It got emasculating after a while.  Roger’s eyes were almost as blue, and almost as unbearably kind as Phil’s had been when ever Clint suffered from guilt and self-doubt.

“Clint.” he said, voice and hand gentle, “It’s not your fault, and no matter how much blame you try to carry, it is never going to magically be true.”

“You don’t understand…”

He detested how weak and needy he sounded in that moment.  Like he was begging for what he didn’t deserve.  Rogers shook his head, looking at Clint, but not really _seeing_ him, eyes filled with old ghosts and older regrets

“I do, and this was not your fault.”

“But…”

“Not your fault, Agent Barton.”

Banner, with his too kind face.  He tried backing up, but Natasha and Rogers kept him from going far.

“Not your fault, Robin Hood.”

Stark’s eyes were sadder than they had any right to be.

“It is!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.  Thor moved to stand between Rogers and ‘Tasha, with a hand to each of their shoulders.  A distant part of Clint’s mind was surprised ‘Tasha not only allowed these people her back, but also for one of them to touch her.

“No fault of your own, Eyes of the Hawk.”

“No-”

“You know, they’re not going to let you go until you agree with them.”

As a group, the Avengers turned to regard Jane’s assistant Darcy with varying expressions.  Thor seemed pleased by her very existence, and Stark looked very unhappy at having to share a room with her, much less his tower.  She moved from the doorway, where she had been standing with hands on her ample hips, past Stark, some of whose blueberries she swiped, earning her a snarled “ _Hey!_ ”.  She then gave Banner a hard pat on the ass, smiling at his startled squeak.  Clint would have been amused if she wasn’t heading straight for him.

She elbowed Thor out of the way and then moved into his personal space, two inches shorter, and a whole lot more intimidating, than he’d expected.  Her ipod was poking out of one pocket, and she was wearing lipstick that Clint would have found rather distracting had he not preferred men.

“So, say it, and let’s get back to me spanking your government employed ass on Time Splitters.”

He was now fairly certain he need to pick his jaw up from where is was gathering dust on the floor, because wow.  _Now_ he understood how she had managed to taise an Asgardian god.

She was still watching him, tapping one bare foot against the kitchen tile in a show of impatience.

“Any day now, Katniss.”, Stark said, inching away as subtly as he could across the counter.  It was obvious that he feared Darcy, or her pranks.  Clint wanted to laugh and scream at the same time.  These people were utterly and completely certifiable, and he loved them.  Loved them to the deepest fiber of his dark and corrupted heart.

“It might, possibly, _maybe_ , might not technically have been my fault.” he said slowly, ducking his head in an attempt to hide the fact that his eyes may have gone a little swimmy.  Natasha’s hand tightens again, and he knows she is not completely satisfied, but right then he was more concerned about her leaving permanent marks with all the squeezing she had been doing.  The Avengers made varying degrees of annoyed sounds, but Darcy stops tapping her foot, and when he glanced up at her, she was nodding.

“Good enough.  Now come along, Big Bird.”

“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that one!” Stark says as he hopped off the counter.  Darcy even had the audacity to slip her fingers under Clint’s belt and pull him along by his hips.  He might have feared for his chastity if she hadn’t gone out of her way to give Banner’s ass another pat. She even snuck in a squeeze, and Clint almost, _almost_ felt sorry for the good doctor. 

The others filed after them, each touching Clint in some way, as Darcy dragged him to the widest couch he had still ever seen (and he’d been in this room for three hours already), flopped down next to him, and shoved a controller into his hands. Natasha drops gracefully onto his other side to run a hand through his hair.  Rogers and Stark are already engaged on an old-fashioned pinball machine, with Thor cheering loudly about their valiant battles with the ‘Tiny silver ball of doom’, and Doctors Foster, Selvig, and Banner had tucked themselves into a corner, heads bent in a conversation that probably didn’t contain words under four syllables.  It’s noisy and crowded, and perhaps a little on the insane side.

For the first time in a long time, Clint feels like he’s home.

***

He had not meant to get pulled into their immature, idiotic little pissing match.  He really hadn’t.  Yet somehow, there he found himself, assisting one Darcy Lewis as she stuffed legos into every pair of shoes Tony Stark owned.

And there were a lot of them.

“He’s going to know you had help this time.” he said as he shoved several small yellow pieces of plastic into a pair of loafers he was pretty sure rang up at about six figures a pop.  They had had to climb through the service vents to get past the insane amount of security Stark had minding his floor.  This was not as easy as it sounded, especially with bags of plastic banging in their pockets and the dragging of other supplies.

“That is the plan, Owl eyes.  He messed with my ipod.  This means war.”

Clint rolled his eyes.  Darcy’s love and protectiveness of her ipod had become legendary among Shield staff after she’d nearly bitten the fingers off some poor guy from accounting who’s only sin was that he had been trying to flirt with her.  No one, save Stark, who had an established death wish on his file, had dared come near it after that.  Hell, Clint had seen rabid mother bears who were less protective of their cubs.

However, he had more sense than some gave him credit for, and he chose not to answer.  He simply kept filling shoes with little plastic torture devices.  Seriously, how many shoes did Stark _have_?  Meanwhile, Darcy had moved on to the liquor cabinet, and began to swap the alcohol in it with jugs of colored water.  Clint had barely convinced her not to dump the stuff down the sink in spite.  No sense in wasting the good stuff, is how he saw it.  She did have comments about the décor, though.

“Geez, it this a punchbowl or a tumbler?”

“I think this is made of fucking diamond.”

“I know his body is made of probably eighty-five percent alcohol, but this is ridiculous!”

He wisely continued to keep his mouth shut.

*

He had just boosted the last jug of pilfered alcohol up to Darcy, who took it and moved off down the vent shaft, when Stark returned.  They stared at each other for a good long while, no sound but for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room, and the muffled bangs and curses of Darcy making her escape.

At last, with the blandest face, and a deceptively mild tone of voice, which Clint had never seen on anyone but Phil, Stark said:

“You do realize that this means war on you too, right, Barton?”

Clint gave a shit-eating grin.

“Counting on it, Stark.” he quipped, then boosted himself up into the vent, replaced the grate, and scuttled away after his partner in crime.

***

Clint was seeing his thirteenth shrink these days, a mild-mannered older woman with plenty of gray in her dark hair and a surprisingly extensive knowledge of rifles and hunting she attributed to a wild childhood in the backwoods of Montana.  She did not use an uncomfortable couch during their sessions, but a sturdy hammock that he sprawled upside-down in , with his head toward the carpet as he faced her, and his boots pointed toward the back wall. 

He was still unsure of how he had gotten back into a bi-weekly appointment with someone, and when he tried to recall, he had only vague and hazy memories of being ganged up on by both his team (Thankfully sans Thor right now), and their many companions.  He could also remember, disturbingly enough, the presence of Director Fury and Agent Hill, which made this entire situation all the worse. 

The woman was tough, for starters.  Any time he tried to pull a stunt or push buttons, she’d raise her brows and look over the tops of her glasses at him in an expression that never failed to make him feel like a miss-behaving ten year old.   She was also more stubborn that a grizzled old she-goat, bugging him until he talked to her. Clint rather liked her.

“Did you ever get anything of his?”

It had been her idea to talk about Phil, and Loki, and all sorts of that unpleasantness.  Clint was grateful beyond words she’d put aside her legal pad, and was instead leaning toward him, elbows on her knees, and one hand twirling her pen between her fingers.  He hadn’t told her, but based on her question, he was fairly sure she had guessed the nature of his feelings for Phil.  He shrugged, feeling the rope of the hammock scrape lightly against his shoulders.

“Of course not.  I’m not family.”

“You were close before your abduction.”

Normally, Clint hated that word and it’s implications that he had been powerless, but today it sort of rolled over him, and he was more interested in the other parts of the sentence.  She still gazed at him with steady eyes, waiting for him to respond.

“Yeah, sure.  But I’m still not family, or anything life that.  You know I couldn’t take anything, or ask, without his family asking questions Shield wouldn’t want them to.”

He paused and though for a moment.

“ ‘Tasha didn’t get anything either, and he was her handler too.”

“But we are not talking about Agent Romanoff.” she answered, “We are talking about you.”

“Why can’t we talk about ‘Tasha?”

“Agent Barton, stop trying to change the subject.”

He gave her his most charming smile.

“But it’s fun!”

There was that look again, the don’t-make-me-stick-you-in-a-corner-for-time-out look.

“Agent Barton.”

“No, I didn’t get anything.”

She was silent for a little while, and Clint spent the time swinging back and forth in the slung up net, pushing a boot against the carpet and listening to the squeak of the bolts in the stand.  The soft music she had playing the background sounded suspiciously like the deconstructed version of Kesha’s ‘Blow’.  He would refuse to admit, even on his death bed, that her next question surprised him.

“Was there anything you wanted?”

He twisted his head upward a little to stare at her.

“I told you-”

“Not what you would be allowed, but what did you _want_?”

He closed his mouth with an audible click, and the office descended into silence again.  Yes, that was definitely a Kesha song he was hearing as he watched the carpet fibers pass back and forth beneath his upside-down head.  He’d never thought about it, honestly.  It had never been something he thought he deserved, so he thought about it now.

“He had this shirt-” he started, and the woman actually jumped a little in her chair.  Apparently he’d been silent longer than he had realized.  She made an encouraging noise when he didn’t continue.  He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried again.

“He had this shirt he would wear, if he had more than a few hours off.  Almost constantly.  Sometimes I wondered if he ever washed it.  It was this ratty, kind of battered Army pride shirt from his service days.  Thing was so old, it was nearly transparent, and there was a hole in the left armpit that he kept fixing, rather than throw it away.  And he sucked with a needle and thread, let me tell you. He loved that shirt so much, it was ridiculous.”

“You’d want that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

He looked up at the ceiling and folded his hands across his stomach, his feet still pushing against the floor to create the hammock’s rocking motion.

Because that was who he was, who he _still is_ , in my mind.  People always saw Phil-in-the-suit, or Phil-the-government-lackey, or sometimes even Phil-the-badass.  They only ever saw the poker face that faced down gods.  No one realized that he was sort of a softie underneath, and that he was fiercely loyal, even to a piece of old fabric that should have been turned into rags ages ago.  That’s who Phil _is_.”

She nodded, her eyebrows drawn together, and she made a short ‘hmm’ sound before letting silence fall between them once again.  She ended the session not too long after that.

*

Three days later, he walked into his room from a run through the streets around the tower, sweaty and heading for the shower.  He flicked on the light as he came through the doorway, and there it was, folded and lying on his unmade nest.  The floor went out from under his feet.

He took one step, and then another, feeling as thought the room was stretching, and his destination was getting further and further away from him.  He was a light-headed by the time he finally got there, and reached out a shaking hand.  Just to yank it back right before he could touch it, afraid it would vanish into thin air if he did.  It took him nearly six minuets to gather the courage to try again, and this time his hands were no steadier as he picked it up and let it unfold in front of him.

And old Army pride t-shirt worn to near transparency, with a hole I the left armpit that needed mending again.  Almost desperately, he held it to his nose and inhaled.

Musk, sweat, Phil.

It took a long time for the tears to stop, and when they did, Clint was on his knees, body curled around the shirt like it was his most precious possession, his eyes sore and throat raw.  He gently placed it back on his nest and scrambled for the shower.

After, he pulled the soft material on, and noted that it was bigger on him than he expected.  The amount of weight he’d lost was suddenly very startling, and he crawled into bed feeling just a little bit more whole than he had before he’d come in, and vowing to starting bulking back up.

He sent the shrink a big box of expensive chocolates that he picked up on his next mission, which happened to be in Belgium, along with a card that had two words written on it in a short scrawl-

_Thank you._

***

He couldn’t say he made leaps and bounds of progress.  But he did okay. 

He found himself participating in earnest in the prank war, and felt absolutely no remorse for pulling ‘Tasha into it.  Not after she managed to sneak bleach into Stark’s shampoo.  Blonde was _not_ a good look for the spokesperson of the Avengers.

He taught Banner (Bruce, he told Clint to call him Bruce), Doc Jane, and Darcy to use the trapeze and the tightrope Stark had put in Clint’s workout room.  He also had ban Stark after he’d knocked Darcy off the tightrope.  There was prank war actions, and then there was just being an asshole.

Thor came and went, hosting game nights and joining in the prank wars with an appreciative glee.  He joined Stark and Bruce in their ‘Rise, Lady Darcy’ prank, and in retaliation (he could hear that shit from _his_ floor, _all fucking night_!) Clint assisted Darcy not only in super gluing the doors to the labs shut, but in super gluing Thor’s helmet to his hands.  Natasha helped with the legos this time.

They had a showdown with Dr. Doom, where Clint got to shoot things, and didn’t feel either like he was a burden, or that he was the enemy.  The Hulk and Iron man also took out half of city hall, and Director Fury got creative in his response.

He attended game night when he could, and decided that while he might like to play video games, he would rather not go up against Captain Rogers (He’d told Clint to call him Steve, but that was taking more work than Bruce, because Phil would _kill_ to be asked that.), Stark, and Thor, who were nothing if not mercenary in their pursuit of electronic victory.

He was also responsible for drawing penises upon the faces of those who dared to pass out drunk in his presence.  Always in permanent marker.  He was also the reason a rule had to be made that no drunk footage of the Avengers was allowed to leave the tower.  Apparently the world was not ready for Darcy making a simultaneous attempt upon the virtues of Bruce and Steve together.  She’d managed to get both their shirts off before she’d passed out.  He’d had the marker ready.

***

The biggest shock of his life occurred nearly fifteen months, one week, three days, ten hours, and eighteen minuets after the second biggest-- the news of Phil’s death.

He dropped into his room via air vent after a quick jaunt to the roof, only to find a Shield employee in his room, back to him.  He assumed they were Shield as no one else had access to the tower and wore dark suits at the same time.  At the sound of Clint’s boots hitting the floor, the man turned and Clint felt as if all the air in his lungs had been knocked out if him.  He knew those blue eyes, that hesitant smile.

“P-phil?” he asked, his voice no more than a tiny breath, while he was mentally begging for this to not be a dream, and if it was, for him not to wake up.  The crinkles around the eyes at that smile deepened slightly nearly undid him.  Phil lifted an arm slowly to scrub at the back of his head.

“Hey.  I thought I should…let you know that I was…” he began, but Clint was already across the room, planting a hard fist into that perfect face.  His knuckles throbbed angrily, but he felt an absurd sense of pride when Phil stumbled back from the force.

“Yeah, I can see you’re still alive.  How nice to know that I’ve been blaming myself for nearly a _year and a half_!  Thinking that I killed you, and  then finding out that all this time I really didn’t need to bother!  You were just fine!  Probably sipping a mohito or some shit in the islands somewhere while ‘Tasha and I had to put our lives back together without the you-sized piece we needed!”

He was shouting, hands clenched at his side, and so filled with rage that a part of him was a little scared.  That fear, and the refusal to be like his dad, kept him from throwing a second punch.  Phil’s expression grew more and more upset as Clint yelled, a trickle of blood running from a spilt in his lower lip.

“Barton, I-”

“Oh, fuck you, _sir_.  Nice to know you thought about us at all.  So sorry to take up any of your valuable fucking time!  You’re here, I know you’re fucking breathing, now get the fuck out!”

Clint turned his back, and focused on breathing in through his nose, then out through his mouth in an attempt to calm the hurt and the pain and the sense of betrayal he felt.  He was also listening for the sound of footsteps to announce that he’d really gone and fucked up what ever second chance he’d just been given.  He knew he would kick himself for this later, but right now he was too angry to care.

Only silence, and no sound of retreat.  Clint ground his teeth, and then snarled:

“I said, _get the fuck-_ ”

“I should have stayed.”

He spun around so quickly Phil raised an eyebrow.  He had not moved, simply raised a finger to wipe away the blood dripping onto his chin.  Clint wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

“What?”

“That night at the research facility.  I should have stayed.  I wanted to.  So very badly.”

Silence, awkward and tense and filled with all the things Clint had ever wanted to say, fell between them.  He felt like the floor was missing again, and he stumbled to sit at the edge of his nest, placing his face in his hands, because he didn’t trust his knees to keep supporting his weight.  Phil made a distressed noise, attempting to step closer, but Clint threw up one hand as a deterrent.  He focused on breathing, slow and even, in an attempt to get his brain back online.  It took more long moments of silence.

“What?” he managed to ask again, not looking up from the sanctuary of his hands.  He heard Phil shift, but he did not make any move to come closer again.

“I said, I should have stayed.  With you.  That night.  I should have kissed you, and held you, and then probably made love to you so thoroughly we were both late to meet Director Fury the next night.  I’ve been kicking myself for being a coward ever since.”

Okay, so Clint might, maybe sort of made a noise that wasn’t quite human at the ‘made love to you’ part.  He was now _really_ sure he was imagining this whole thing as part of some delayed psychotic break left over from his ordeal.  Phil Coulson would not, _could not_ , be standing there and telling Clint  he had wanted him, for as long as Clint had wanted _him_ , and that Clint hadn’t been on his own.

“I-you-wha-how…..Did you want to try that now?”

Phil made a sort of choking sound as Clint’s head shot out of his hands.  Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.  But the look on Phil’s face now that he had might just be completely and totally worth it.  Phil even had clear his throat a full three times before he managed to get anything else out.  If he said no, Clint wasn’t sure what he would do.

“Yes.  Very much, yes.”

He launched himself into Phil’s arms like he’d wanted to for years, and when they closed around him tightly, he kind of wanted to die right there, because there was no way his life could get any better.  But then Phil was pressing their mouths together, one hand in Clint’s hair and the other pulling them snugly together, and hey, yeah, holy fuck, Phil could kiss.  And then he slipped his tongue in, and Clint reached behind him to fill his hands with Phil’s ass.

He didn’t know if the groan that rose between them came from him, or Phil, or both.  But then they were toppling backward into Clint’s nest bed, Phil’s weight on top of him the most wonderful thing in the world.  But he was still mad, so he tugged his mouth away.

“You stupid, fucking idiot!” he snarled, tears at the corner of his eyes.

“I know.  I’m sorry.  Forgive me, Clint.”

Kisses pressed to his jaw, his neck, on the pulse behind his ear where Clint really liked it.  Phil’s scent was everywhere, and so were his hands.  Under Clint’s shirt, caressing his face, sliding over his shoulders.  The apology was so heartfelt, Clint gave up his rage.  It didn’t matter how, because Phil was here and real in his arms, and he could get the explanation later.  He dropped a bite to Phil shoulder, received another groan for his efforts, and then sealed their mouths back together.  They were sweaty and panting a few moments later, and then Phil was fiddling with the top of Clint’s jeans.

Clint sort of lost track of time for a long while after that.

***

“That’s my shirt.” Phil said with a good natured smile from the bed and Clint dragged said shirt off the floor where it had been thrown and pulled it over his head.  His pants were unbuttoned and he couldn’t find his underwear, but he didn’t mind.  He looked down and away from Phil, embarrassed for some unknown reason, but Phil just shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling at the edge of Clint’s vision.

“I’m glad you wanted it.”

“I-”

“Looks better on you, anyway.”

Clint gave him a massive smile.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

“Government employee.”

They shared a laugh, and Clint felt red creeping up the back of his neck from both embarrassment and pleasure.  But then the guilt returned, to remind him he did not deserve this happiness.

“No.” Phil said sharply, and Clint looked up.

“No?”

Phil leaned forward to the edge of the next, the scar from Loki’s scepter still a little red and shiny in the light of the room.  He bracelet Clint’s wrist with a hand, and pulled until Clint tumbled back onto the bed with him.  He then slipped both arms around Clint, and nuzzled into his slightly sweaty hair.  There was silence for a time, something Clint had become used to, both between them, and in his surrounding life, and Clint knew he’d talk when he was ready.

“No.  Don’t get down on yourself.  I did too much work to finally get you here.  You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you slip away now because of some miss-placed guilt trip.”

Clint mulled this over for a moment, let it sink in.

“I’m not worth it, Phil.  I killed too many people.”

“So have I, Clint.  What makes me better than you?”

Phil then bit at one of Clint’s shoulders, and a haze of desire slowed the response.

“Not the same, Phil-”

“Bullshit.”

Clint blinked up at his lover, startled.  Phil did not swear much, as he always believed that swear words denoted a weak and limited vocabulary, even after his Army days.  Not that this opinion stopped _Clint_ , but to use one himself meant he was very angry.

“Phil.”

“Bullshit, Clint.  Fucking _bullshit_.  You were taken control of by _magic_.  Haven’t you figured out by now that there are things out there we aren’t strong enough to fight alone?”

Clint traced the recent scar slowly with a finger tip, and Phil shivered slightly.  He didn’t need to say anything, because Phil kept going,

“ _Not_ your fault, Clint.  I want to hear you say it.”

Clint sighed, squirmed, buried his face in the valley between Phil’s neck and shoulder, but Phil wouldn’t let him off the hook.  He poked and prodded and ordered, muscling Clint into looking at him.  As they looked at each other, something loosened in Clint’s chest.

Yes, there were deaths that he had caused and that were always going to be his fault.  But not this one.  Not Phil.  He lifted a hand and ran it over Phil’s cheek, his chin, his forehead, tracing the features with his eyes too.

“Not my fault.” he murmured.  Phil, who had probably guessed exactly his line of thought, sighed.

“We’ll work on it.” he promised as he tightened his hold.  Clint felt a crazy grin stretching wide across his face, pleased despite himself.  He had Phil, and Phil was telling him he was worth a damn.  This idea was new and strange, but not wholly unlikable.  Still, he didn’t want to talk about this any more at that moment.  He glanced up at Phil through his lashes.

“Besides, who said _you_ got me here?  Maybe I got tired of waiting for you to make a move and just worked you around to where I wanted you.”

Phil’s answering laugh went a long, long way to sealing up a few more of the cracks in his soul.

***

“I will vanquish you, good captain.  Prepare yourself for the taste of defeat at the hands of my Princess Peach!”

Thor was twisting the controller wildly as he attempted to stay in second place on the final two laps.  Stark ducked one meaty arm without taking his attention off the screen, and Phil and Clint were too far down the couch to be concerned.  Steve took the buffering without comment, and then sent the shell he’d been holding onto since the start of the race into Stark’s character, sending it careening off the rainbow track and costing Stark his lead.

“Ahhck!  Steve, you wrinkled, cheating old man-whore!” Stark howled, looking like he wanted to chuck the controller at the ‘good captain’, who was currently smirking like a pro.  Clint nearly fell of his perch on the back of the couch, he was laughing so hard.  Only Phil’s hand on his leg kept him from going ass over tea kettle. It was loud that night. ‘Tasha, Jane, and Darcy were all jumping up and down and screaming behind them, cheering for different racers, or booing them.  Steve and Phil even exchanged a pleased glance, as Phil’s advice was what had sent Stark spinning out of the competition.  Steve then proceeded to pass Thor on the inside of the last turn to take first by a bare second.

In the resulting din, Phil dragged Clint down to place a hard kiss against his mouth, and Thor clapped them both on the shoulders. They both ended up sprawled across the floor, laughing fit to burst.

Clint might not be whole yet, but he knew that with this kind of crazy family, maybe, just maybe, he might be one day.

_**FIN** _

 

**Author's Note:**

> *"I bet a lot of money he cries like a fucked whore when he gets back to Asgard.”  
> So, hope you enjoyed it. Glad you stuck with me this long, and thanks SO much for reading!


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